


Fidelity

by Saathi1013



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, First Time, Marriage, Other, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Polyamory, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Threesome - F/M/M, but tbh he seems like he'd be down for that so, egregious abuses of walt whitman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8680492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: How Martha Kelly gets introduced to Walt Longmire by Henry Standing Bear, and their ensuing courtship and eventual marriage.Or: what happens when a couple doesn't realize there's been a third party involved in their relationship the whole time until it's (almost) too late.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (1) This is for kristophine/scientia-rex, whose research about Prudhoe Bay and willingness to exchange headcanons long into the night were integral to the construction of this story. Thanks also to walthenryvic/kingelton, who is a marvelous enabler.
> 
> (2) For those concerned by the tags, Deena/Henry is not endgame...
> 
> (2.5) ...but I don't want to hear any Deena hate in the comments, please. I've tried to write her sympathetically (if still flawed), and am not a fan of female character hate as a rule. Thank you.

Martha Kelly’s grandmother — God rest her soul — didn’t raise a fool; she learned early on how to spot a good thing when she sees it.

So when Henry Standing Bear introduces her to his friend Walt Longmire, and the latter tips his goddamned hat and spends the entire conversation looking at her face instead of counting the freckles on her chest, actually listening when she talks… well, she’s half smitten already, and the shy grins Walt shoots her suggest that she’s not alone. They might be low standards, but they’ll do fine as reasons to tell Henry to give him her number — “You know,” she adds, just as Walt gets back to the table with another pitcher of beer, “in case he asks.” She gives Walt a wink, enjoying the way his ears go pink, and saunters off to rejoin her friends.

“Cowboy’s _totally_ staring,” Laura tells her when she sits back down.

“He better be,” Martha replies, and they giggle into their Tequila Sunrises.

 

* * *

 

The memory of that encounter is less satisfying when she’s sober, exhausted from three ten-hour days on her feet in a row, waiting tables at the Busy Bee, and the gangly dope hasn’t bothered to call her. Henry comes in for his part-time stint as busboy and dishwasher, and she ignores him until her shift ends. He catches up with her out back, as she’s cutting across the alley to her truck. She nearly jumps a mile when he calls her name.

“I am sorry,” he says, holding up his hands and stepping back. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed upset.”

Martha sighs. “I am,” she says, “but I’m mad at that friend of yours, not you.” It’s not fair to take it out on Henry, unless… “Did you even give him my number?”

Henry gives her a small, rueful smile. “I did. But Walt... does not like using the phone if he can help it.” He steps closer again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “He would rather speak to people in person — he originally considered visiting you at work, but I nipped that idea in the bud.”

“Oh, thank God,” Martha says. She _hates_ seeing people she knows at work. It’s the most awkward thing ever, and in a town like Durant where most everyone knows everyone else, that means that some days are just stacked-up gradations of discomfort.

“I’ll tell you what, though, he and I are going to meet for dinner at the Clear Creek. I could ask Deena to meet us, if you wanted to come, too?”

Martha chews on her lip. “Yeah,” she says finally. “Yeah, why not?”

 

* * *

 

One of the first things Martha notices is that Walt has a tendency to carry around paperbacks with him, covers faded and corners worn soft from time. They may look cheap and pulpy, but they’re usually classics, and she rarely sees the same one more than twice in a row.

“Mervyn Peake, huh?” Martha asks him one day, when she’s picking him up from his current job restoring a turn-of-the century storefront half a mile from the Bee. He must have been working on carpentry today; his jeans are nearly furred at the cuffs with sawdust, and he smells of sweat and of pine. At his questioning look, she nods at the book he has left on the dashboard with his work gloves. “I never really got into fantasy.”

“Oh?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “What do you think of this…” He retrieves the book, opens it, and starts reading a passage, his voice dropping slightly and smoothing out, shedding all the halting hesitation it gets when he knows she’s watching him. Martha loses the thread of the scene he’s reading halfway through, enamored with this side of him, so different from his usual self-conscious demeanor.

At the next stop sign, there’s nobody else on the road waiting for them, so she’s free to put her truck in park. Walt glances up, voice trailing off mid-sentence as she unbuckles her belt, leans over, and kisses him for the first time.

It becomes a habit, both kissing him and his reading to her. He doesn’t seem to mind either.

 

* * *

 

Martha wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, but she’s glad things work out the way they do with Walt. It helps her figure out how to sort away her affection for Henry, who’s attractive and clever and funny and very, _very_ taken. Having — only partially by accident (it’s a long story) — been the Other Woman once, Martha’s not keen to do it again. Especially given that Henry’s girlfriend, Deena, is nice enough that Martha doesn’t want to hurt her, and has enough intimidating friends that Martha _really_ doesn’t want to piss her off.

So it works out. Martha’s got Walt, as steady a guy as she could ask for, and while he’s not as quick as Henry, he’s deep and astonishingly well-read, and equally handsome in his own way. He’s all pale sandy eyelashes, and wide shoulders that stoop slightly like he’s always worried about walking into a hanging light fixture, and a gentle, genuine smile that matches the careful strength in his broad hands.

(She’s not gonna lie, she’s kinda regretting their decision to take things slow.)

And on the other hand, she’s got Henry as a good friend. None of that pesky confusion that happens sometimes with guys, where she’s not sure where they stand. Where she’s not sure if his smiles and compliments carry extra weight to them, or whether she’s imagining things. She’s with Walt, and Henry’s their friend, and Henry’s with Deena, and everything’s clear.

Except. While Martha’s dead certain that Henry, Walt, and herself are all on the same page about not crossing the lines and fucking each other over, she’s the one who gets to find out that Deena’s… _less_ clear on the concept.

Maybe it’s for the best that Martha’s the one who sees Deena getting cozy with some out-of-towner on the outskirts of the Tri-County Bull Roast. Walt might have caused a scene, and Henry… well, Martha’s relied on Henry’s protection from handsy customers often enough when they’re working the night shift that she knows the results wouldn’t be pretty. Either way, the unsuspecting interloper would get chased off, and Martha would be left to foot the bail.

And she’s almost gotten enough saved up to pay off her gram’s trailer outright, too, damn it.

So Martha doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t tell Henry, or Walt, and she definitely doesn’t mention it to Deena. They’re friendly, but they aren’t _friends_.

‘Friendly,’ as it happens, _does_ extend to Martha oh-so-casually mentioning to Deena one night how her uncle Phil up in Bozeman has an opening for a third shift manager at his hotel. He’s been _hoping_ Martha will move up there and work for him, but she likes Durant, and doesn’t want a hand out, and besides, there’s Walt… It’s just a _shame_. It seems like a nice gig, that’s all.

By the end of the weekend, Deena’s moving to greener pastures than her job as the assistant manager for the Sinclair off I-90, and Martha owes her uncle a favor.

Henry’s heartbroken, naturally. But not as badly as he _could_ have been, and nobody’s in jail.

That’s small consolation when Martha sees him crying behind the Busy Bee as she arrives for work. It’s not much, just red eyes and a set jaw and a couple tracks down his cheek that dry up fast, but she has to bite her tongue from telling him why she’s so sorry, letting him believe that it’s sympathy instead of guilt that makes her say it as she rubs his shoulders consolingly.

Walt susses out the truth faster than she could have expected. “Did you get Deena that job?” he asks her that weekend when they’re all bundled up in the bed of his truck, waiting for the sun to set so they can watch the Leonids. She’s got damn near every blanket she owns wrapped around her and two sleeping bags folded up under her already-numbing ass, so she can’t much move when the question registers, but with effort, she can turn a little to stare at him.

“...yes,” she says, voice muffled by her scarf. She braces herself for the fact that her relationship might be the next one to go, all because Deena makes bad life choices.

Walt nods; he’s less constrained by layers than she, because of chivalry and machismo and also because he genuinely doesn’t seem to notice the cold as much as she does. So she can see his face. It doesn’t help, though. He’s impassive, still looking up at the sky. “...was it for a good reason?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Martha replies immediately.

He nods again. “I thought it might be,” he says, and that’s that.

Martha shivers, as much in relief as in response to the weather, and he frees his arm from under his brightly-patterned Pendleton to pull her against him. She tips more than leans against him, and they’re quiet until the horizon goes dim and the meteors start streaking across the sky.

The first one she sees, Martha closes her eyes tight and makes a wish.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Martha hadn’t been telling the whole truth to Deena, when she’d listed all the reasons she’d kept turning down her uncle’s offer. The list had been honest, but not exhaustive. What she hadn’t mentioned is how, that spring, she was turning twenty-two and getting her associate’s in journalism, and that left her with vanishingly few options, going forward.

At her graduation barbeque, Walt asks her to marry him in front of God and all their friends, and she says yes, and suddenly those options drop to fewer than she can count on one hand. Walt wouldn’t have proposed if he’d known she thought like this, which is why she doesn’t always tell him every stray thing that crosses her mind. Whatever else happens, she wants to be _with_ _him_ when it does.

It’s not as if saving up for a bachelor’s degree at a proper college in a city closer to one of the coasts was going to be easy, anyway. She’s almost relieved. And though she knows Walt would sell his family home and move into her trailer so they can afford to fund her dreams, she would never ask. Similarly, she also knows he wouldn’t be happy following her to a big city, so she’d never ask that, either.

She loves him because he’s the kind of man who _would_ do damn near anything for her, and because he’s the kind of man who’s most content in open, untrammeled spaces. There isn’t anything more she really needs from him than that. Certainly not him giving up one for the sake of the other.

 

* * *

 

Walt’s a smart man, though. Smarter than most give him credit for, and he still surprises her on occasion. Hell, she’s even seen him surprise _Henry_ , which is saying something, given how long they’ve been friends.

“Henry’s been talking about going up to Prudhoe Bay,” he tells her, “The pay’s good. Enough that he can save up to open that restaurant he’s always talking about. If I went, I think I could manage to send you back to school. You know. If you still want to go.” He lifts one eyebrow, eyes almost guileless but she feels like he’s watching her more keenly than the casual tone of his voice belies.

Martha folds her newspaper and sets it aside amidst the remnants of their picnic lunch. “ _Walt_ ,” she says. “I’m not sending you up to the ass-end of Alaska just so I can spend all that money—”

“Well, not _all_ ,” Walt says. “I’ll send some to mother, use some to fix up the house or, or to save for a family…” His eyes soften as he says the last bit, and Martha feels herself smiling back at him, feeling warm all over.

“Hm,” she says. “I’ll think about it.” She picks up her coffee and takes a sip. “Besides, don’t think I don’t know that this is all an excuse to keep an eye on Henry.”

Walt laughs.

 

* * *

 

One of the reasons she and Henry have gotten along so well is because they both know what it’s like to lose their parents young. Martha doesn’t remember her mother; she died due to complications with her second pregnancy when Martha was three. After that, Martha’s grandmother took over raising her while her dad made a living on the road as a cross-country freight driver, so while it was devastating to lose him to a traffic accident when she was in middle school, they hadn’t exactly been close, and she still had kin.

Henry, as far as she’s always known, hasn’t had _anybody_. Not blood relations, at least. He’d had Walt in his life longer than anybody else, including caseworkers and foster families. And though she didn’t ever pry for details — you _don’t_ , especially not with Native kids who have parochial boarding-school diction — she knew enough.

So it’s a bit of a shock for everyone when Henry’s father shows up at the Busy Bee one day.

Henry doesn’t drop the dishes he’s holding, but it’s a near thing. His face goes ashen, though. Then he sets his plastic tub down, the plates and silverware rattling, wipes his hands on his smock, and draws himself up to his full height.

“I believe I will take my break now,” he says to Martha, and she nods, feeling rooted to the spot. At the time, she doesn’t know who the stranger is, but she’s never heard that distant tone in Henry’s voice, never seen his face so stony and cold.

Later, Henry explains, after five cigarettes and three beers consumed in the safety of Walt’s old house. “I have not seen him since I was five,” he tells her. “And I have not heard from him since I was eight. I thought he had gotten himself killed years ago.” He pauses, and stubs out the last smoldering butt in the ashtray. “I told him that it would have been better if he had not corrected that assumption.”

He falls asleep on Walt’s musty old couch, not for the first time, and Martha drags the scratchy wool blanket up over his shoulders. Walt’s on the porch, leveling an unseeing stare out at the inky landscape, a half-empty Ranier can forgotten in his hand. “Some kids get taken into the foster system who shouldn’t be,” he says in a low rumble, bitterness threading through his words. “And sometimes, their parents don’t bother fighting to get ‘em back. Far as I figure, that’s not family. Family’s who sticks around, no matter what.”

Martha tucks one hand in around Walt’s elbow and uses the other to steal the last of his beer.

 

* * *

 

Their bachelor and bachelorette parties are held on the same night, and accidentally merge around midnight when the bachelors all turn up at the bar where the bachelorettes have been since their raucous trip to the ‘adult boutique’ off I-25.

To be honest, Martha is dubious about the ‘accidentally’ part when she sees Laura, her maid of honor, set up camp in the middle of the most eligible groomsmen, but she lets it slide. There aren’t that many places good for bachelor parties in Durant, strip clubs aside, and from the looks of the glitter liberally distributed among the men, they’ve already been.

Martha blows Walt a kiss while he's being plied with shots, and makes her way over to where Henry's watching the proceedings with the satisfied smile of an accomplished host. She hops up onto the stool beside him and plucks a bright pink boa feather from where it's stuck in the crease of his collar. “Enjoying yourself, I see,” she tells him, offering him the errant feather.

He plucks it from her fingers and chuckles. “Of course,” he tells her. “But more importantly, are _you_?” He twirls the feather against the tip of her nose, and she laughs.

“ _Absolutely_ ,” she tells him. “And Walt seems to be surviving all the attention.”

“You should have seen him earlier,” Henry tells her.

She can only imagine. Walt's never been comfortable in front of crowds; being the guest of honor at a strip club sounds like his idea of hell. “I hope you made it quick and painless,” she says to Henry solemnly, only to ruin the effect by hiccuping. “Ooh, that means I'm sobering up,” she says.

“How awful for you,” he says, signaling the bartender for another round. Henry must have designated himself tonight; he’s drinking club soda.

Martha almost says something stupid like _my hero_ , but Tracy decides to come over and deposit herself in Henry's lap. “ _Martha_ ,” she scolds in a decibel half a notch higher than necessary, “you already caught one eligible bachelor, don't get greedy on us.”

Henry laughs, smile looking strained as he extricates himself from Tracy's embrace. “Do not worry,” he says, “I am more likely to defend her virtue than take it.”

Tracy beams at him. “No wonder you get to be the _best_ man,” she says.

Martha takes her drink and tows Tracy back to the dance floor, grinning at the relief she glimpses on Henry's face they go.

Later that night, while Martha and Laura are waiting for Peggy to bring her van around, she spots Walt and Henry by the latter's truck. Their heads are bowed close together, and Walt’s swaying slightly on his feet, but it’s too dim to make out much more than that, and they’re too far away for her to ‘accidentally’ eavesdrop.

 _Maybe Walt is getting cold feet_ , she thinks. But no, he’s got one hand curled around the base of Henry’s neck and is gesturing emphatically with the other while Henry nods.

Like Walt is reassuring _Henry_.

Maybe Henry’s lonely, and their upcoming wedding is making it worse. Maybe Martha shouldn’t have derailed Tracy’s attempt to pick him up, earlier. Maybe he misses Deena; Martha can’t remember the last time he was in a relationship that serious. Maybe, _maybe_...

She doesn’t think anything of it for the rest of the night, but the next day, after she’s sobered up and fought off the worst edge of her hangover, the image of the two men leaning on each other by Henry’s truck is one of the clearest memories she retains from that evening.

 

* * *

 

They get married on a hillside under the open sky, a handful of friends and family as witnesses to the simple ceremony. Martha’s uncle Sean gives her away, and Walt’s mother gives a piercing whistle from her seat when the pastor presents them as _Mr. and Mrs._ at the end. In the valley below, there are tents set up with live music and a dancefloor and a buffet, which is augmented with dishes brought by guests whose desire to demonstrate their joy at the occasion is outstripped by their budget.

The sun shines brightly, but even if it were overcast, Martha wouldn’t notice the difference.

“Martha,” Laura says at dinner, lifting her glass, “I want to thank you. Thank you for letting me cheat off your history homework in sixth grade.” Martha laughs, already tearing up. “Thank you for helping me train for all those biathlons, even though I never did make it to the Olympics. Thank you for letting me sleep over at your place in high school when I drank too much, and for kicking Bobby Morris’ ass for giving me mono senior year. And thank you for getting in enough trouble of your own — which I won’t mention here — that I didn’t feel like a bad influence. But most of all, thank you for introducing me to that ridiculously tall drink of water sitting next to you, because I really don’t think I knew what true love looked like…” Laura’s voice goes tight, and she blinks rapidly, swallowing hard, before she can continue, “or that fairy-tale happy endings were actually even possible until I saw you two together. So thank you. For being a bad example, and a good one, and everything in between. To Martha and Walt!” The assembled let out a cheer and drink.

Henry stands next, pulling out a many-folded piece of paper densely covered in his familiar handwriting. “Those of you who know Walt,” he starts, “know that he is not fond of speeches, either giving them or being the subject of them.” He smirks down at them. “Just this once, Walt: suck it up, because I have things that I would like to say.” Walt covers his eyes with one hand, but Martha can see that he’s laughing.

“I think you’ll survive,” Martha whispers to Walt, squeezing his hand where it’s laced with hers, “just this once.” She smiles up at Henry, giving him a nod, and his eyes drop back down to the paper he’s holding.

“The first time I met Walt, I punched him in the face,” Henry says, and half the crowd chuckles with familiarity; the other half laughs in surprise. “But after that initial misunderstanding, we have been inseparable. We have seen each other through tumultuous childhood, and awkward adolescence, and I suspect we will be stuck with each other long into doddering old age. I have seen him at his worst and at his best. And I can tell you this: in all that time, I have never seen him as happy as he is with Martha. I might be jealous if I had not been the one to introduce them — but since I did, I will simply say this: Walt, you owe me one.” A laugh ripples through the room again before Henry raises his glass high. “To the both of you, and to your long and happy lives together.”

Martha swallows hard past the lump in her throat, and grips Walt’s hand tightly as their wedding guests drink again.

 

* * *

 

“I liked your speech,” Martha says to Henry later, on the dancefloor.

“Thank you,” he replies. “Although I found it very easy to write. It was the truth, after all.”

“Mm,” she hums, lightly noncommittal. “So tell me the truth now, Henry,” she starts, noticing how his eyes freeze in place, stopping for a fraction of a second between looking at her face and scanning the crowd. It’s such a brief tell, she could’ve missed it, but she doesn’t this time, and wonders what question he’s fearing she’ll ask. “Was going up to Alaska your idea or Walt’s?”

Henry gives her a small, private smile, slight tension leaching out of his shoulders. “The fact that you are asking me that tells me you already know the answer.”

“That’s what I thought. The great idiot. Thank you for going with him.”

“I am not only going for his sake,” he reminds her.

She grins. “I know — your restaurant! Have you figured out a name yet?”

Henry shakes his head. “I have not. When I do, you will be among the first to know,” he promises.

“Good,” she says. “Now, do you need me to play matchmaker for you before we leave tonight? Walt’s not the only one who owes you for our introduction.”

At this, Henry laughs. “You do not owe me a thing, Martha — if anything, I owe you. I have just passed the responsibility of looking after Walt on to you.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Except in Alaska,” she reminds him.

“Except in Alaska,” he agrees.

 

* * *

 

Martha’s a devout woman, to a point. She goes to mass every Sunday, celebrates the Sacraments, and knows her catechism. She’s also pretty sure that the flip side of the Golden Rule means that if she isn’t hurting anybody, she’s got a bit more leeway for behavior than Father Gillespie and the Church tend to recommend.

Meaning that she’s still a virgin on her wedding night, but she’s not _naive_. In fact, she’s well-acquainted with her body, and owns a number of books with scandalous but informative content. So that’s not why she’s apprehensive when Walt picks her up to sweep her across the threshold to his home.

When the door swings open, she gasps. There had been light in the windows, but she hadn’t been prepared for _this_. A fire crackles merrily in the fireplace, warming the whole front room. Lit candles twinkle from every flat surface, and the floor is strewn with rose petals. “...it’s beautiful, Walt,” she says as he gently lets her down.

“Henry and Laura helped,” he says, explaining why the two had disappeared towards the end of the reception. Martha’s oddly relieved. “Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” she replies, kicking off the heels that have been pinching her feet since halfway through the ceremony. She crosses the room in her bare feet and lifts the bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket that’s sitting on a stool beside the hearth. “Dom Perignon?” she comments, impressed. “I’m almost afraid to open it.”

Walt lifts it from her hands and glances at the label before setting it back in the bucket. “We can open it later,” he murmurs, his tone sending shivers down her skin. Martha meets his kiss halfway, returning it with equal affection before pulling away. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

Wincing in apology, she tries to explain, “I’m sorry... I’m just—” She chews on the inside of her cheek, looking away. “Honestly? I’m _exhausted_.” She shrugs a little. “I know, it’s silly, but. I really didn’t realize how tired I’d be…”

Walt chuckles, and her eyes dart up to meet his again. There’s no censure in his gaze, just amusement. “Oh thank God,” he says. “I thought I was the only one. I was half terrified I’d fall asleep on you.”

Mirth bubbles up in her lungs, and she finds herself laughing again, trying to take the edge of wild relief out of it by pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. It’s less than successful, and she laughs until tears leak from her eyes, over-tiredness and euphoria and the immensity of the day all catching up to her at once. Fortunately, Walt’s laughing with her, one hand cupped around her elbow as she sways a little on her feet.

And there, just like that, looking up at him, the reality of _being married_ settles into place in her mind. Walt’s there to hold her up, there to laugh with her, there to forgive and be forgiven when they can’t meet the expectations they thought they had to live up to. He’s there, and so is she, and he’s not going anywhere, and neither is she. For the rest of their lives.

“Let’s turn in,” she says, once she has her breath back enough to speak without giggling. “ _Husband_.”

They put out the candles, one by one, and go to bed.

 

* * *

 

“What do you want to do? We can’t spend the whole two weeks in bed,” Walt says, late the next morning, poking at the eggs in the saucepan like that’ll make them cook faster.

“Says you,” Martha says, having tied the sheet artfully around her and settled on the couch.

“We borrowed Peggy’s van,” he reminds her. “Didn’t you want to go up to Tie Flume, fish a little? Sleep out under the open stars…”

“Outdoors might be a nice change of pace,” she concedes. “And not just for the _fishing_.”

He shakes his head. “I’m _scandalized_ , Mrs. Longmire.”

She laughs. “Not yet, you’re not.”

 

* * *

 

Peggy’s van doesn’t start, and neither of them can figure out why. “Oh, well,” Martha says, not disappointed in the least. She likes fishing, but she’s got years of celibacy to make up for, and a partner who’s shaping up to be as attentive as she could’ve hoped. Of the two activities, she knows what (and who) she prefers to spend her honeymoon doing.

“We can just shift all the camping equipment to my truck,” he says. He doesn’t suggest hers because they don’t trust it on steep inclines as much anymore, though it does fine for getting around town.

“...all right,” she says. “But let me call Peggy, let her know. She can get it towed to Lee’s.”

“Lee’s not open on Sundays,” he reminds her. “But Henry’s got that cousin with a garage on the Rez, you could call him.”

“Right,” she says, nodding. “I’ll be on the phone, you have fun moving all that stuff.”

Walt gives her a rueful grimace, like he should have known he’d get stuck with the heavy lifting. “...yup,” he replies, sounding reluctant.

“You want to be the one to call Peggy?” she asks, teasing him. “Be my guest.”

“No, no,” he says, lifting his hands in surrender and laughing. “I’ll be fine out here.”

 

* * *

 

“Thank you,” she tells Manny as he climbs back into his tow truck, Peggy’s van firmly secured behind him. He gives a wave out the window that she and Henry return, and heads carefully back down the drive.

Walt comes outside, propping his hands on his hips. “All set?”

“Looks like it,” she says, then turns to Henry. “Thanks for coming out here. You really didn’t need to go to the trouble.”

“It was no trouble at all,” he says. “But you two will probably want to get on the road soon.”

Walt shakes his head. “Too late now,” he says. “It’ll be dusk before we even hit the county line. We’ll sleep here tonight, head out in the morning.”

“I will get out of your hair, then,” Henry says, giving them both a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Martha glances over at Walt, seeing his frown. “No,” she says on impulse. “Stay. Have dinner with us. Consider it a thank you. For… well, for everything you’ve done for us lately.”

“I could not impose,” Henry says, shifting towards his truck.

“Henry…” Walt says, somewhere between puzzlement and scolding.

Henry doesn’t meet his gaze when he says, quieter, “Walt, it is your _honeymoon_.” There’s something strange and strained in his voice.

“It sure is,” Martha says. “Which means we get to spend it however we like. And tonight, we’d like to spend it with you.” Henry’s eyes dart up towards hers, filled with something like alarm and shock and _hurt_ , before he looks away just as quickly. She turns to Walt again, who’s staring at Henry, looking like he just got hit with a revelation.

Walt comes down the steps slowly, hands open, palms facing Henry like he’s trying to show that he’s not a threat. Like Henry will bolt any minute. “Henry,” he says, quiet but firm. “Stay for dinner. Please.”

“I cannot.” Not ‘do not want to,’ but ‘cannot.’ “I... have someplace I need to be.” Martha shakes her head at the lie. If he had plans, he would have mentioned them earlier.

“If you don’t want to have dinner with us, just _say_ so,” she says with a touch of asperity.

“That is not—” Henry starts, sounding lost, his voice getting rougher. His gaze meets hers, pleading. “What do you want from me?”

 _For you to stop being ridiculous about a dinner invitation_ , Martha almost retorts, but Walt’s hand lights on her elbow, distracting her. She looks at her him, baffled.

“Martha,” Walt says slowly, like every word has a physical weight, edges he needs to handle carefully lest they cut his tongue as he speaks them, “do you want Henry to stay tonight?”

The easy answer is _yes, of course, Henry’s always welcome here_. But Henry’s demeanor, Walt’s tone, draw her up short. She considers the question carefully. _Does_ she want Henry to stay?

 _...wait_ , she thinks. _Wait wait wait._

Walt didn’t say ‘for dinner.’ He said _‘tonight_.’

‘We get to spend our honeymoon however we like,’ she’d said, ‘...tonight, we want to spend it with you.’ And Henry had looked at her like she’d stuck a knife in his chest.

“...oh,” she says aloud, feeling stupid. Henry shifts again, gathering himself to flee, and she reaches out, snags his arm at the wrist. “Yes,” she says to them both, lifting her chin. Turns out, her answer hasn’t changed. “Of course. Henry’s _always_ welcome here.”

Walt nods at her. “He always has been,” he tells her, reinforcing her decision and perhaps confessing more than he knows. Perhaps he knows, and he meant it. She’ll find out soon enough.

In all the time she’s known him, Henry’s never looked this bewildered, this alarmed. “You do not know what you are—” he starts, a hint of anger threading through his voice.

Martha steps forward and kisses him, hearing Walt’s sharp inhale as she does so. He doesn’t say anything, though, doesn’t pull her back with the hand he still has on her elbow.

Henry makes a small, hurting noise in the back of his throat, and she shifts back on her heels, sticking close. “Stay,” she tells him. “Please? We didn’t drink that expensive champagne you bought us, and it’s only fair to share.”

“Only… only if you want to,” Walt says, haltingly. He’s gripping her elbow like he’s using it to stay upright.

Henry’s disbelief is fading, but he’s still frowning. “I do…” he admits with reluctance, stepping back. “But I cannot.”

It stings, making Martha’s throat go tight and her chest ache. “Why?” she asks.

“I am… with someone,” Henry replies.

Martha’s stomach drops out, and she sees that Walt looks equally startled.

 

* * *

 

“... _Deena_ ,” she mutters finally, sitting on the porch steps and staring out at the valley. It’s unfairly gorgeous, the sunset sending ribbons of colored light up the sky, tinted and filtered through the immense clouds that drift above the horizon.

Walt hands her another beer.

Henry is long gone; there hadn’t been much to say after his confession. It hurts, bitterness in every breath like she’s spent six hours pouring coffee for cigar smokers.

“Do you… ah. Want to talk about it?” Walt murmurs after a while.

“Not really,” she says, leaning into him. He exhales in relief, and she smiles wryly. “Only. We would have, right? If he’d said yes?”

“...yeah,” Walt admits. “You disappointed?”

Martha lets out a shaky exhale. “Yeah,” she echoes, sneaking a sidelong glance at him to find that his jaw is set, eyes fixed on the distant sky. “Walt. _Walt_. I’m not disappointed that I’m with _you_.” She puts her hand on his forearm, tilting her cheek against his shoulder. “I just thought we could share what we had. That he wanted…”

“He did,” Walt says. “We all did. Too late, I guess. Bad timing.”

“Shitty fucking timing,” she agrees. She sets her beer aside and stands, looking down at him. “But you know what?”

“...what?” Walt asks warily.

“I’m still here,” she tells him. “And you’re still here. And we still have a bed in there…” She takes his hand in hers. “Don’t you disappoint me, too, Longmire.”

(He doesn’t.)

They go up to Tie Flume the next afternoon, and spend their honeymoon in the mountains, exactly the way they’d planned. The champagne gets put away, unopened.

 

 

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Deena is waiting on the bench in front of the Busy Bee when Martha gets to work.

“Hey,” Deena says, standing, her shoulders hunched and her hands in the pocket of her denim skirt.

“...hey,” Martha echoes, her heart hammering in her chest.

“I wanted, um. Henry told me that he told you that I’m coming back to town, and that we’ve been. You know. Seeing each other again. And I wanted to make sure we were okay?”

“...okay?” Martha says.

“You know… after that whole thing with your uncle.”

“My uncle?” Martha is starting to feel like a parrot. “What happened with my uncle?”

Deena blinks, her shoulders dropping. “You _didn’t_ know? He made a pass at me… more like a bunch of passes, really. And I told his wife. That’s why I quit.”

“Holy shit,” Martha says. “Nobody told me.” That explains a lot, like Carol leaving Phil two months before her wedding, and having to rearrange the seating at the reception so that they were as far apart as humanly possible. “That _asshole_.”

“Yeah,” Deena agrees. “So… does that mean we’re cool?”

“Of course!” It’s not like there’s any other answer Martha _can_ give without bringing up something Henry doesn’t seem to have mentioned to Deena already. And if he hasn’t by now…

“Oh, _good_ ,” Deena says, fully relaxed now. “I was worried. He thinks the world of you, and of Walt, and I know that there’s no way he and I would have a shot without being square with you both.”

Martha does her best not to react to this, even though she can feel her chest constricting again. Then something occurs to her. “...hey, Deena?” she says. “I know you were unfaithful to Henry, before you left.”

Deena’s eyes go wide and her face goes a little gray. “I never—” she tries weakly.

“I saw you,” Martha interrupts. “And it’s okay, I didn’t tell Henry and I never will. But… he’s a good man, Deena.”

“I know,” Deena replies. She gives Martha a rueful smile and a shrug. “Why do you think I came back? But no. I don’t plan on fucking up a good thing twice.”

Martha smiles at her, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. “Okay. Then we’re square. How do you feel about all of us getting together Saturday, having a welcome-back dinner?”

Deena smiles back. “That… sounds great, actually.”

 

* * *

 

If there’s any awkwardness with Henry, Martha can’t tell. Walt goes tense and quiet sometimes, but Clear Creek Cantina is always busy on Saturdays, and crowds have never been Walt’s favorite things in the world, even when he has his guitar on open mic nights.

Martha thinks she acquits herself well, watching herself carefully every time Deena and Henry show affection. The thing is, she doesn’t feel jealous, exactly. She’s happy if Henry’s happy — but there’s a faint wistfulness when she sees Henry’s hand on the small of Deena’s back, the way his thumb strokes over her knuckles when they hold hands.

It’s fine, though. She’s fine.

More importantly: is _Henry_ fine?

Martha stays at the table while Walt goes to get the register to pay and Deena excuses herself to the ladies’ room. “Hey,” she says, and Henry’s eyes snap to meet hers, expression solemn, like he already knows what’s coming. “I just want to make sure… I mean, after the last time we saw each other…”

Henry’s smile is warm, if guarded. “Do not worry,” he assures her, sounding sincere, “I will not say anything to Deena. And I value our friendships too much to let a passing impulse ruin them.”

Martha’s expression locks in place when he says ‘passing impulse.’ “Right,” she replies, hoping that whatever he sees on her face is convincing. “I’m glad we’re all on the same page.”

He nods agreement, seeming to believe her.

 

* * *

 

The ride back home is quiet and tense. Martha stares out into the night, thoughts as turbulent as the air rushing through the open window. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, hoping that the wind will drown out her voice.

“What?” Walt says, and she snaps.

“I said _fuck_ ,” she says, louder, the curse sharp on her lips. “Pull over.” They’re on an old spur that cuts through unleased federal land, so she can shout and swear and storm around all she likes without worrying about passers-by getting nosey.

“What—?” he says again, but goes along with it. Before he’s even thrown the vehicle into park, Martha’s got her belt unbuckled and her hand’s pulling the door open. Walt catches her gently by the wrist. “Martha?”

“I just. I need a minute,” she says. “Just. Let me. Give me a minute.”

He lets her go.

She scrambles up a slope of reddish dirt and scree, clutching at tufts of junegrass to steady herself as she climbs. About thirty yards up, she reaches the crest and stops, catching her breath, the crumpled landscape bathed in pale moonlight, utterly indifferent to her presence. Abruptly, all the energy drains out of her, and she finds she doesn’t want to scream anymore.

She sits down on a nearby outcropping, sighing.

It’s so _stupid_. She has Walt, she has a good life, she wouldn’t trade it for anything. She sure as _shit_ doesn’t want to leave her husband for a man who’s perfectly happy reunited with an old flame, a woman Martha likes well enough not to betray though she’s not quite willing to wholly trust her yet.

But. She wants Henry, wants to know what it’s like for him to return her kiss, wants to know what his hand feels like, lingering in the small of her back. Wants to share a bed or a tent or even a patch of floor strewn with bruised rose petals with him. Wants to wake up to the smell of him cooking breakfast while Walt fusses with the percolator, both of them sharing the kitchen and—

“ _Fuck_ ,” she mutters again, pitching a pebble into the dark gully below her.

 _Just a ‘passing impulse,’_ she tells herself. _Get_ over _it._

Martha stands up and picks her way back down the slope.

“Hey,” Walt says when she gets back. He’s leaning against the passenger side of the truck, door open and spilling light across the gravel shoulder. He’s left his hat on the bench seat, looking oddly vulnerable without it despite the fact that she’s seen him as often like this as wearing it, lately.

“Hi,” she says, vaguely embarrassed. He holds out his arms and she steps gratefully into them, lifting her face to kiss him.

“Feel better?” he asks when she’s done.

“Define _better,_ ” she replies with a humorless little laugh. He cups his hand around her jaw and threads his fingers into her hair, kissing her again, sweet and steady and deep. She leans into his embrace, feeling herself unwind slowly. “Okay,” she tells him when he’s done. “Definitely _better_.” But still not great, she doesn’t add. Still not _normal_.

 _That might be the worst part_ , she thinks. It’s one thing to want someone she can’t have, another to want something that would cause harm to the other people involved.

Wanting something that’s _this_ impossible…

Martha sighs, pulling away and giving Walt a small, sad smile meant as reassurance. “Let’s go home,” she tells him.

 

* * *

 

“But _Alaska_ ,” Deena says again, mournful and incredulous as they meander through the crowd filling the town square for the chili cook-off. “Why are they going to Alaska? I just got _back._ ”

“I know,” Martha agrees, wincing as one of the speakers by the stage gives a squeal. There’s a lineup of local bands scheduled for later; she’s looking forward to watching Tracy, Quinn, and Keith, the line cook from the Bee, making fools of themselves on stage. She’s even brought her camera for later blackmail material.

“It’s so _far_ ,” Deena says, gesturing with her beer bottle, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “And cold. It’s cold enough _here_.”

“It’s good work,” Martha points out, also not for the first time. “Henry could buy his restaurant after just a couple of years, if he saves right.”

“Yeah,” Deena concedes grudgingly. “But _ugh_.” She offers Martha some loaded chili fries, and Martha takes a couple from the end with the fewest peppers. “So why is Walt going? He gets enough with his seasonal gigs to keep you both afloat, doesn’t he? Skilled carpentry pays pretty good, I hear.”

“We do okay,” Martha tells her. “It’s not for nothing I’m still waiting tables.”

“Right,” Deena replies. “So if you had your pick, what would you want to do?”

“Write for a newspaper,” Martha says, “or one of those fancy magazines, like Time or Newsweek or National Geographic or something.”

“You’d be away from home then, too,” Deena points out. “Walt’s okay with that?”

Martha starts eyeing the sno-cone stand, feeling the burn of the chili building along the roof of her mouth and the back of her tongue. “I’m okay with him going to the rigs,” she says. “We both knew we’d have to spend some time apart, for whatever reason.” Truth be told, they don’t have a set plan, exactly. Step one has always been ‘get enough money to have options so they _can_ plan.’ They’ve talked about their pie-in-the-sky dreams, sure, and they’ve done all right so far in reality. But they both know not to get ahead of themselves and count on grandiose dreams when they’re both happy enough with each other to live simply, too. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” Deena says, laughing. “Anything where I don’t have to clean any bathrooms?”

Martha laughs with her. “That, I _totally_ understand.”

 

* * *

 

It gets easier, eventually, to ignore the altered awareness of Henry that had flared so briefly. It sparks occasionally, with proximity — she tries to be _very_ circumspect at work — or when he makes her laugh, or when the light hits him just right, or when she catches _Walt_ looking at him when both are unaware.

They haven’t talked about it again, Walt and Martha. She wonders about him, sometimes, wonders what he meant when he’d acknowledged his own interest. Wonders what would have happened, if Henry had said yes.

Some days are more trying than others.

But it gets easier.

 

* * *

 

The weeks count down to Alaska. Laura starts dating some guy who works as a manager at the Connally lumber mill, Peggy gets herself knocked up and isn’t telling anyone who the father is, and Tracy finally makes good on her years of threats and moves down to Laramie for pharmacy school.

Martha’s very aware that she’ll be rattling around the house by her lonesome all winter, and spends her days off doing her best to make sure she’s not going to freeze or starve or get stranded between home and town or go completely batshit with the solitude.

“I’m leaving most of my books,” Walt says while they’re rehanging the shutters, half an offer, half a reminder, adding, “except the Homer.”

“That’s all right,” she replies, “I’ll just take up weaving, like Penelope.”

Walt shakes his head, grinning as he ascends the ladder.

They finish the shutters, re-seal the windows, and have someone in to inspect and clean the fireplace at Martha’s insistence. “I don’t _care_ how handy you are,” she tells Walt, “I’m not dying of carbon monoxide in my sleep.”

“Please don’t,” he says to her.

They get a lot done, even getting the curve of the driveway re-graded, though it adds a bit more to their credit card debt than Martha prefers. Walt assures her that it won’t be an issue once he gets his first paycheck, and she goes along with it, having nearly skidded out on the icy turn more than once already.

“This looks like a real home again,” Walt’s mother, Betty, comments during one of her visits before he leaves. “It’s about time. This place was falling apart without a woman’s touch, but I can’t get around like I used to, you know.”

Martha nods politely while she busies herself with the tea kettle. Secretly, she’s glad Betty moved down with her sister in Casper instead of the other way around; she wouldn’t have blamed Walt for taking in family, but the two-bedroom house is a bit small for four, especially when two only just started sharing a bed as man and wife. “Are you still thinking about getting a place in Arizona?”

“Maybe, maybe,” Betty replies. “But if all this _nesting_ of yours is leading up to something, I think I can stick around a little longer.”

“Nesting?” Martha echoes absently before the meaning sinks in. She almost drops the cups and saucers she’s pulling down from the cabinet. “Oh, oh no, I’m not. No. We were hoping Walt would have a job closer to home by the time we… _no_.” She laughs, nervously, bringing over the tray she’s assembled. It’s not a fancy tea set, but the china was her gram’s and the tray was a wedding gift and they don’t clash, so it works well enough, most days.

Of course, most days, she’s not discussing babies with her mother-in-law — a woman who, by all accounts, was as handy with a shotgun as a skillet. Apparently, she spent three years letting a teenaged Henry hide out at her place every time he found his foster homes less than adequate, and she used both those skillsets in the process. Martha’s not quite sure how Walt turned out the way he did — quiet, bookish, musical — with this kind of woman as a mother, but she’s glad he did. She just has a hard time not being intimidated half the time they share a room, is all.

“Hm,” Betty says, adding a healthy spoonful of sugar and a squeeze of lemon to her tea. “And here I thought you were Catholic.”

Martha feels her cheeks heat up. “I am,” she says, not looking up from her own cup, wishing she’d added a dash of whiskey to it before bringing it over. “But I was raised not to talk about… _religion_ in polite company.”

Betty snorts at this, catching the entendre. “Sure, sure, I won’t stick my nose in your business. Mighty flattering to be called _polite company_ , though.”

Martha hides her smile against the rim of her teacup, but lets Betty see it in her eyes.

 

* * *

 

“Barry says he knows someone at the Chronicle,” Laura tells Martha as they carry out tupperware bowls and casserole dishes, setting them up on the long trestle tables they have set up in the shade of the low birch trees that line the edge of the yard. Henry’s already starting the grill, good-naturedly accepting ‘help’ from Walt and the other men nearby, which primarily consists of idle pointers he ignores in-between debates about marinades versus dry rubs, the right lures to use on cutthroats (they’re all wrong: Martha uses crawfish with a bit of tinfoil for the flash, and it works every time, but she’s not giving up her secret), and the upcoming football season.

“Oh?” Martha asks. She’s not sure she likes Laura’s boyfriend; the Connally brothers have always been trouble, but at least Lucian’s found a focus at the Sheriff’s Department. Barlow seems to spend half his time playing boss at the sawmill and the other half thinking his success from the construction boom means he can play boss everywhere else, too.

Also, he tips for shit.

“Yup,” Laura says, nudging her in the side with an elbow. “You still got your portfolio, or resume, or whatever it is? Because he says the editor keeps complaining about not having anyone worth a damn on his staff, and I figure you’re worth at least two whole damns and half a chance.”

Martha blinks at her. “No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Oh my God!” Martha does a little happy dance next to the potato salad.

Strolling past on his way to the beer cooler, Lucian slows his steps and gives her a smirk. She flips him the bird and keeps dancing. He shakes his head and continues walking, still grinning.

“What’re you all excited about?” Deena asks, bringing out an armful of condiments.

“I have a job interview!” Martha tells her.

“Congrats,” Deena says. “Think you can hook me up? Answering Manny’s phones doesn’t completely suck, but some of his customers… ehh. You know guys. Besides, it’s only part-time. What else am I gonna do with myself while Henry’s gone?”

“Well, do you have any hobbies?” Laura asks.

“I’m pretty good at pool,” Deena replies, then pauses, thinking. “...and, y’know, I keep saying I’ll learn the piano…”

“My mom used to give piano lessons to kids after school,” Peggy comments, snagging a handful of chips..

Martha laughs. “Right, Deena and Walt can start a band together.”

Deena bumps shoulders with her good-naturedly. “Only if you sing.”

“Oh God, no,” Laura says immediately.

Someone sets off a bottle rocket, and Martha jumps at the unexpected crack that resounds through the air. Someone whistles and claps and three more go off, plus the telltale hissing of a rocket that screams into the air a moment later, trailing colored smoke behind it before exploding in a flash and a burst of smoldering confetti.

Labor Day is as good an occasion to get everyone together for a cook-out and bonfire, but it’s also the last time they’ll all be together like this. Walt and Henry will leave in a couple of weeks, so this’ll serve as a going-away party for them both, too.

They spend the next few hours drinking, eating, and lighting things on fire. It’s very festive.

It’s also very loud. Martha ducks back into the house to grab some aspirin. The kitchen is dark and cool and blissfully quiet by comparison, so when she goes to get a glass of water, she can clearly hear familiar voices in the sitting room. Curious, she heads down the hallway and peers through the doorway, expecting to find a couple of partygoers in a compromising position.

She’s mostly right. Walt and Henry stand close together, their voices low and angry as they gesture in tight, staccato motions.

Half tempted to intervene, she pulls up short when she hears Walt saying her name: "–to Martha? The last few weeks have been—” She steps back so that she’s out of view in the shadows of the hall.

“So your concern is for Martha,” Henry interrupts. “I see. This has nothing to do with—”

“With what?” Walt says, voice raising. “Why shouldn’t I be upset when my wife—”

“Stop talking about _your wife,_ ” Henry says, almost a snarl. There’s a soft thump and a clatter, and Martha peers around the corner to find that Henry’s pinned Walt against the wall. Henry’s hands are fisted in Walt’s collar, forearms against his chest; Walt could shake him off, push him away, but he simply stares at Henry with wide eyes. Henry’s glare flickers, his gaze dropping to Walt’s mouth.

There is a long, silent moment where no one moves. Martha could say something, walk forward, make some kind of noise to break the tension, but she’s frozen still, her heart hammering in her throat.

“ _Henry,_ ” Walt breathes, almost inaudible.

Henry lets go, backing away, bootheel catching on the corner of the rug as he turns to flee. Stumbling, he exits the room and spots Martha, coming to a stop before he can run into her. She puts one hand up to steady him, and he shrugs it off.

“Henry,” she says, very like Walt just had.

Henry’s mouth flattens to a thin line, and he shoulders past her without a word. Martha stares after him, at a loss for words. The screen door in the kitchen creaks, then slams shut again.

She turns back to Walt, who stoops to pick up his hat from where it had fallen to the floor. “How long were you standing there?” he asks, fiddling with the brim, not looking at her.

“Long enough,” she says. “...do you want to talk about it?”

He sits heavily on the couch, shoulders hunched, elbows propped on his knees. “Not particularly.”

“Okay,” she says, taking the hat from his hands and setting it on the side table, crown down. “We don’t have to talk.” She straddles his lap, knees on the couch cushions, gathering him in a close embrace, his cheek against her sternum. His hands smooth up her arms to her shoulders and then down, stopping at her elbows. “It’s okay,” she tells him, her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he says fiercely, like he needs to prove it. Like she’d question it.

“I know,” she assures him. “Walt. I don’t think you love me less for wanting more.” She pauses, thinking. “How does it go… _I sing the body electric… Loving the body of man or woman…_ ”

She can feel him smile, feel the rounding of his cheek where it’s pressed against her chest. “Whitman,” he murmurs, giving the correct quote: “ _The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect._ ” He looks up at her. “I’m not sure this is what he meant.”

“Why not?” Martha asks.

“We’re not some bohemian hippies living out of our vans,” he says.

“No,” she says, “we’re not. I’m not saying we have to be. I’m saying… you can love me and want him, and neither one of those things cancels out the other.” She wonders if Henry understands that; she wonders if he thinks Walt _can’t_ understand that.

It doesn’t matter now. She bends down and kisses Walt, humming happily against his mouth as his hands move from her elbows to her back, pulling her closer.

 

* * *

 

Martha drives Walt to the bus station, which will take him to the airport, which will take him to Prudhoe Bay by way of Anchorage. Their public goodbye is muted; they stayed up all night saying their private one, basking in their last chances to touch, to talk while seeing each other’s expressions, to share space together.

Walt stows his duffle bag in the cargo compartment and they hug one last time, sharing a bittersweet and lingering kiss before parting.

Martha feels stupid, watching him board the bus, peering through the windows for his silhouette as he finds his seat. She feels stupid and sappy and cliched, watching the bus pull away. Her hands are stuffed tightly under her elbows, in case she gets the impulse to wave. Walt probably can’t even see her.

She thinks she sees Henry’s profile in one of the windows, and turns away, too cowardly to risk eye contact and feeling a stab of regret at not having had the chance to say goodbye to him, too. They haven’t spoken since Labor Day.

Martha goes back to her truck and drives home.

 

* * *

 

Long distance calls being prohibitively expensive, they only get a chance to really talk every four weeks or so — after ten pm on the first Sunday of every month, she’s by the phone, waiting. Sometimes, the lines are down due to the weather; sometimes his coworkers take too long on their own calls and he can’t call at ten on the dot. She curls up with a peppermint patty in a big earthenware mug and a good book or the research for her latest article for the Chronicle, and waits.

The rest of the time, they write each other.

_Dear Walt,_

_I think I’ve been taken off probation at work, although Emmett hasn’t come out and said it yet. He doesn’t complain about me taking up a desk anymore, and hasn’t called me Margie in weeks. Plus, he’s actually letting me pitch stories every now and then instead of assigning me leftovers at the end of meetings or sending me to help the mail room. Baby steps, but I’ll take them._

_I’m mostly doing local interest stories, trying to put a new spin on familiar events and places. Emmett turned down that piece on War Eagle that I was working on — he called it “too sensationalistic.” Like I was exhuming someone’s grandma for Halloween decorations, or something. I’ve included a copy with the rest of this week’s clippings. Tell me what you think._

_Speaking of work, I’m so glad to hear you got a promotion! Or… is security staff a promotion from roughneck? I don’t know how those things work. It comes with a raise, that’s all I know, and that’s reason enough to celebrate._

_Also good news: your mother says your aunt can come out of the hospital this week. The stroke left her with partial use of her arm, but it’s affected her walking pretty badly, so she might have to use a chair from now on. There are exercises and things that she can do, and she’s on a cornucopia of pills, so who knows. We’re just glad she’s on the mend._

_She got your card, by the way, and says thank you. Your mom still wishes it was enough of an excuse to visit. I keep reminding her that you’ve only been up there a couple of months, and it’s almost three thousand miles away, but you know Betty._

_I’m going to go visit Peg today. She told me who the father is, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone else. You don’t count, right? It’s Manny — you remember, Henry’s cousin with the garage? I almost fell over when I heard. Seems like he gave her more than a tow, that day after our wedding. She says they hooked up a few times, but he doesn’t know about the baby. I don’t know why she won’t tell anybody… No, that’s a lie, I’ve met her parents, I know why. I still think Manny deserves to know._

_Don’t tell Henry, though. Oh, that’s right, you two still aren’t speaking, are you? He broke your nose the first time you met, you two can work through this, too. Maybe before Christmas? That gives you two weeks._

_I love you. I miss you. Stay safe._

_— Martha_

The letters she gets back from Walt aren’t as long, but his envelopes are sometimes stiff with photographs, like he’s trying to tell her more with pictures than with his words, which are predictably terse.

_Martha,_

_Emmett’s a fool if he doesn’t print that piece on War Eagle. I think it’s the best thing you’ve done. Then again, I’m biased. Remind my mother that I promised to call her on Christmas, and tell my aunt that she’s in my prayers every Sunday._

_Peg should tell Manny. He’s a stand-up guy, and it’s about time she got out from under her parents’ thumb. I can’t imagine they’re all that happy with her as it is; she may as well cut her losses. If you need to take her in, I don’t mind._

_I’ve been listening to a lot of jazz. Someone left a record player behind, and since the speakers in the common room are wired up to a cassette player and radio, nobody really bothers with it. So I’ve commandeered it for the library, which is where I spend most of my free time. I hope you like Nina Simone._

_I love you. I miss you. Christmas will be tough without you. I can’t wait to be home._

_— W.L._

_P.S. No, we’re still not speaking. Hence the library._

The ‘library’ is hardly deserving of the name, from what she can see in the photos. It’s little more than a storage closet with a handful of mismatched chairs and a cable-spool table holding a lamp and the aforementioned record player, plus a couple milk crates filled with albums. The few bookshelves along the walls are filled with tattered paperbacks, hardcovers who’ve long lost their dust jackets, and a not-insignificant number of girlie mags and comic books.

_Dear Walt,_

_Merry Christmas! I know, we’ll be talking on the day itself, but it felt wrong to send you a present without a note. I hope you like it._

_Peg moved in with Manny. Oddly, her mother calmed down a bit once they did — her main objection turned out to be that the child might grow up without a father, or even knowing who he is. Peg’s father nearly had an aneurysm and kicked her out, to the surprise of nobody. It’s for the best, anyway. She seems happier now._

_Your library seems precisely as respectable as its patrons, yourself excluded. I’ll have your mother crochet something for that table._

_I love you. I miss you. The bed is cold without you in it._

_— Martha_

_P.S. Tell Henry Happy Christmas for me._

Before she receives his answer to that one, she sends another the day before New Year’s, too livid to speak, and unwilling to spend as much money as she’ll need to properly vent, especially so soon after the last call.

_Walt —_

_I don’t care if you and Henry aren’t speaking. Tell him the following exactly, and tell him it’s from me:_

_“How dare you? Only a fucking coward breaks up with his girlfriend over the phone during the holidays. It doesn’t matter that you weren’t going to be able to see her in person for months. You’re a spineless asshole.”_

_Much appreciated,_

_Martha_

 

_* * *_

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Deena insists, but her eye makeup looks worse for wear, and she’s already finished her second Bloody Mary of her Breakup Brunch. It’s the first time she’s been to one, and she doesn’t know all their little rituals.

“No, no,” Tracy says. She’s on her break from Laramie, and between what she’s learned from school and Tracy’s pregnancy horror stories, Martha now knows way more about the human body than she ever wanted to hear about during a meal, even if it’s mostly alcohol. “You’re supposed to tell us all the reasons he’s awful, so you feel better about not being with him, instead of pretending you’re _fine_.”

“And you take a drink for each reason you list. Drunker you get, the better off you’ll be,” Peggy adds, refilling Deena’s glass from the pitcher.

“Seriously,” Deena insists. “I’m fine. It’s not like we were together very long, and most of that was long distance.”

Martha remembers that Deena moved back to Durant for Henry, and she’s not the type to move _back_ to Durant unless it’s for a damn good reason.

“If he thought it wasn’t fair to make you wait for him, why didn’t he let you down easy _before_ he left?” Laura’s asking. She makes a _tch_ sound through her teeth, looking unimpressed. “Shortsighted,” she declares. “Take a drink.”

Deena looks dubious about the ritual, but drinks anyway.

“Stubborn,” Martha suggests. “Arrogant?”

Deena keeps drinking.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you’re taking his side,” Martha says, scowling at the base of the telephone like Walt will be able to sense it through the wires. “I’m glad you two are talking again, but what the _hell_ , Walt?”

“I don’t want to fight,” Walt says to her. “Not about _Deena_. She’ll move on soon enough.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Martha says. “No, don’t answer that, I know _exactly_ what you were implying.”

She can hear Walt’s answering sigh, picture the pained expression on his face. “I don’t want to fight,” he says again.

Exhaling heavily in kind, she scrunches down under her pile of quilts. “Yeah, fine,” she concedes. “We’re paying too much for this call to spend it arguing. I still think you’re wrong, though.”

“Noted,” he says, and this time she can hear the smile in his voice.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Walt,_

_You’re not going to believe it, but Laura and Barlow eloped to Vegas. I wish I could see your face right now. I’ll bet it’s priceless. I’m sending a photo because I know you won’t believe me otherwise._

_I’m glad you’re enjoying the records I sent you for Christmas. Your mother noticed the necklace you gave me, because I haven’t taken it off since I unwrapped it, and asked where you managed to find emeralds up in the ass-end of the arctic. I told her you mugged Santa Claus._

_Deena’s taken up piano lessons with Peg’s mom. It’s half in earnest, and half an excuse for Peg to see her mom without her dad knowing. From what I can tell, Peg’s mom goes to Deena’s place, Deena plays scales and chopsticks on an electric keyboard for a while, and then Peg shows up so they all can have lunch and visit._

_The local library is holding a book drive for the needy. Should I have them send some of the donations up to you? I imagine you’ve read everything in your little collection three times already by now…_

_I miss you. I love you. Your books miss you, too._

_— Martha_

_P.S. Tell Henry I’m still mad at him._

 

* * *

 

It’s noon on a Saturday in the middle of February when Martha’s phone rings as she’s bringing up food from the basement pantry. She dumps her armful of canned vegetables and neat paper-wrapped cuts of venison on the counter and scrambles to catch it before the caller hangs up. “...hello?” she answers. “Longmire residence.”

“Hello, Martha,” Henry says, and she nearly drops the receiver.

“...hi,” she says. “How are you?”

“Well enough. I thought I would give you a chance to yell at me directly,” he says, “instead of third-hand through postscripts.”

“Oh,” she says. It’s not that she doesn’t still _mean_ it, when she writes it after signing her name, just that there’s no true vitriol there anymore. “Yelling might be overshooting it.”

“That is reassuring,” he says.

Martha sits down, feeling dizzy. It’s been five months since she spoke to him last, and she hadn’t realized she’d missed his voice until just now. How is it, up there?” she asks. As if Walt hasn’t told her, sent her photos, shared silly anecdotes in his letters.

“Cold,” he tells her. “Your husband is driving me crazy with all the jazz. He listens to one album at a time, for days at a time, the way he rereads books he likes.”

Martha grins. “The first time to enjoy it, the second time to stop and take notes on every page. Is he keeping notes on his music?”

“In your next care package,” Henry says, “please send pens. He’s running through our supply.”

Martha laughs.

They don’t talk long; long distance rates still apply. But by the time she hangs up, Martha feels lighter.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Martha,_

_I’m glad I’m coming home soon. I miss you terribly, and I can’t wait to go hiking in the mountains and look over landscape that isn’t endless tundra flats._

_Henry seems restless. Every couple of months, they send us to Anchorage, the nearest approximation of civilization. It’s so the employees don’t get cabin fever and start climbing the walls and setting things on fire. Don’t laugh, it’s happened before, or so they tell me, and having seen the security files on some of these guys, it wouldn’t surprise me. Anchorage helps, not least because there’s more than two women there._

_When we go out, I expect to play wingman half the night and drink alone the other half. But while Henry flirts and gets occasional offers of varying subtlety, he never takes any of them. I wonder if you were right after all, and he misses Deena._

_I love you. I miss you. And I’ve been rereading Whitman lately, even though I know I shouldn’t._

_— W.L._

 

_* * *_

 

Laura’s pregnant now, too. She calls Martha to tell her the news, her voice half an octave higher with her delight.

Martha tries to be excited for her, she does. And it’s not that she’s not _happy_ for her friend. It’s just difficult to get really excited when she’s been rattling around her own house all alone through the winter, and she’s still got a month left before she can see Walt again.

“This has been the longest six months of my life,” she tells Deena at lunch. Unlike Martha, Deena _likes_ seeing friends while she’s waiting tables at the Bee. Martha takes full advantage.

“You’ll be fine,” Deena tells her, rolling her eyes. “Walt will come back, you’ll spend a solid week in bed, and then your chronic cabin fever will be magically cured.”

“Sorry,” Martha says. “I shouldn’t complain to you. It hasn’t exactly been a picnic for you, either.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Deena says. “I’m happier single. And that’s exactly what I told Henry when he called to ask me to take him back.”

Martha almost chokes on her coffee. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yep,” Deena says, lifting her eyebrows and making the ‘p’ pop in emphasis. “I told him I’d think about it, but he shouldn’t get his hopes up. I mean, it’s not like he’s done anything to prove he’s invested in the relationship.”

It’s rock solid reasoning.

Until Henry buys Deena a _piano_. Martha can’t believe it until she actually sees it herself, the instrument almost comical with how much of Deena’s tiny apartment it takes up, for all that it’s an upright.

“...holy shit, I thought you were _kidding_ ,” Martha finally says after several minutes gaping.

“So did I, when the mover showed up. But no, it was my name on the form. Henry called in the order, wired them the money, and the next morning, I’m late for work because of a _surprise piano delivery._ ”

“Have you talked to Henry about it yet? Did he explain…?”

“You bet your ass I did, soon as I got home last night. He meant it as some grand romantic gesture, but God, I don’t—” She gestures at it helplessly. “I don’t need a piano! I only wanted a _hobby_ , not heirloom furniture!”

Martha tries to swallow the chuckle that bubbles up in her throat, but it must show on her face, because Deena takes one look at her and starts laughing.

“...oh,” Martha says, catching her breath after a minute of giggles, “oh my God. Okay. So what did you tell him?”

It dissipates the last of the levity. “I couldn’t say yes,” Deena says, genuine regret in her voice. “I can’t set myself up for rejection like that again.”

Martha can’t blame her.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Walt,_

_Two weeks. Two weeks! I can’t wait to see you. This last month has felt longer than the first three did combined._

_I should warn you, we are now the proud owners of a piano. Yes, it’s that piano. Deena says it just kept sitting there, judging her. Now you and the piano can be judgy about her together, and she doesn’t have to be there for it._

_Speaking of which, she’s going out of town for a while to visit some relatives out east. I get the feeling she’s one of those people who needs an anchor, and now that she’s been cut loose… Peg’s parents are separating, and her mom is subletting Deena’s place for a while. Funny how things work out._

_I love you. I miss your voice. We can talk Whitman all you like when you’re home._

_— Martha_

 

 

 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Seeing Walt again is not like waking up after winter hibernation; it’s not like finally being able to breathe after a prolonged time underwater; it’s not like regaining a limb. It’s not that dramatic or poetic, she’s not _incomplete_ without him.

But something in her does ease, like she’s been hiking up a steep trail and the ground has evened out, or she’s been carrying a weight that’s now distributed more evenly. That’s now _shared_.

It’s stupid and sappy and cliched, but unlike their goodbye, Martha doesn’t care, she rushes into Walt’s arms as soon as she sees him and lets him pick her up and kisses him and—

She pulls back, stroking his cheeks and jaw, perplexed. “You have a _beard_ ,” she says. He chuckles and brings her close again for another kiss. “Yeah, no, that’s not staying.” It’s not a terrible look for him, but she missed his _whole_ face, not just the top half of it.

They kiss again anyway, and Walt sets her down.

Henry stands a few feet away, looking away until Martha says his name. “Hi,” she adds, crossing the distance between them to give him a hug. “Welcome home.” She doesn’t brush her lips against his cheek, but she is near enough that the bristles of his own facial hair scratch gently at her jaw, raising goosebumps she hopes no one sees.

“Thank you,” he tells her. “It is good to see you.”

“We should have dinner,” she says impulsively. It takes a moment to realize how that sounds, remembering the last time she extended that offer, and she adds, “at Clear Creek. Our treat.”

Henry’s smiling at her, and she has to look away, look to Walt. It’s not easy to read his expression, but he nods certain enough.

“All right,” Henry says, shouldering his duffel bag. “If you are buying.”

 

* * *

 

Martha doesn’t pay much attention to the meal. All she’ll remember later is that they traded anecdotes and news while she enjoyed the ability to see them both, to make faces at them, and to hear the sounds of their voices and laughter without them being filtered over a staticy phone line. It’s also fantastic to feel Walt’s thigh next to hers, to bump knees and elbows and shoulders with him, to curl her hand around his elbow or to tuck her fingers into a belt loop.

This is what she was starved of, this familiar intimacy. Walt seems to be as famished, leaning into her every touch and instinctively reaching for her hand in idle moments.

It isn’t scandalous or anything. She doesn’t kiss him… well, not more than a couple of times, and not _inappropriately_ , or for any prolonged duration. The waiter doesn’t give them any odd looks, and the other customers don’t seem to pay them any mind, so she doesn’t feel like she has anything to be sorry about.

And yet, she’s very aware of Henry across the table, how his eyes periodically flicker down to their hands and then away, how he keeps his distance, difficult to reach with friendly nudges and gestures.

It bothers her in a vague, distant way, but she’s too engaged in their conversation for it to give her real pause.

More troubling is how insistent he is about refusing their offer of a ride home. “No, no,” he says, casting a significant glance over at the bar area. “You both have your catching up to do, and I have mine.”

Getting his meaning, Martha shakes her head. “All right, have fun,” she tells him, hugging him goodbye. “Don’t forget, you promised to help me get ready for Peggy’s baby shower on Saturday.”

“Of course,” he tells her with a smile. “She’s family.”

 

* * *

 

Martha and Walt don’t make it to the bedroom before they’re shedding clothes. They barely make it out of the truck and into the house; Walt’s hand had landed on Martha’s knee on the way home and had inched higher with every convenient bump in the road while she drove with quickening breath and an iron will.

They make it as far as the sofa in the front room.

 

* * *

 

“What do you want to do? We can’t spend the _whole_ summer in bed,” Martha says, late the next morning, flipping pancakes a little clumsily in the pan with the wobbly handle.

“Says you,” Walt says, sitting in his robe at the kitchen table, freshly-shaven and reading the Sunday Chronicle. “Huh, Lucian lost a deputy again. How many is that in the last three years? Five now, or is it six?”

Martha grins. “Seven. There was one while you were gone. He didn’t just quit, he left the state. I think he’s somewhere in North Dakota now.” She twists to point at Walt with the spatula. “Now there’s an idea, you can work for Lucian. You’ve been doing security, his deputies never last more than six months, so you’ll be going back up north by the time he fires you or you quit. It all works out.”

“I’ll stick to construction,” Walt tells her. “Why don’t _you_ do it?”

“Because he’s already hit on me twice at our cookouts,” she replies. “I’m not letting him think he’s got a daily shot at my ass, thanks.”

“You _will_ have a gun,” Walt points out.

She pretends to think about it. “Nah, I’ll stick with the Chronicle over manslaughter.”

“Suit yourself.” He shakes out the paper and re-folds it to read the next page.

The mundane details of life engross them through the morning and into the afternoon. They check over their finances, compile a shopping list, and Walt gets stuck on the phone with his mother for an hour, reassuring her that he’ll be visiting soon. He hangs up with an exaggerated grimace.

“Did she mention grandchildren again?” Martha asks, halfway through sorting laundry.

“Every time,” he replies, coming over to help.

“Well, it hasn’t been for lack of trying,” she says with a shrug. “Not that I want you to tell her that.”

Walt frowns, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he disentangles a pair of long johns from a pair of jeans. “I worry about you already when I’m gone,” he tells her. “I don’t know how I feel about you raising a child on your own for half the year, too.”

“I have family and friends here,” she points out. “All you have up north…”

“...is Henry,” he finishes. He looks up at her, expectant.

Martha stops what she’s doing and drops to the bed next to him. “Right,” she says heavily. She knows he wants to know what she thinks, how she feels, but honestly, it’s such a mess, she can’t articulate it even to herself.

“Do you still…?” Walt ventures.

“I do,” she sighs. “I do. But. I don’t think we _should_.” He looks puzzled, and she waves her hand in the air. “I’m not second-guessing our marriage or anything. It’s just… it’s _Henry_. We love him and we want him in our bed, but I don’t know what that means, or what else… I mean, if we want him with us in bed _and_ out of it, that’s a big, complicated thing to ask. And he’s said no to us once already.” She remembers what Deena said: _I can’t set myself up for that again_. “Maybe he wants us but not… _us_. What you and I are together, vows and all. Maybe he’s not ready for that kind of thing.”

Walt takes her left hand in his, thumb rubbing along the gold band on her ring finger. “...is that what we’d be asking?”

“You’d settle for less?” Martha replies. “There’s a difference, though, to what we’re asking. Secrecy instead of living openly, honestly. That’s not fair to him. Or to any of us, really.” She sighs again.

“We could ask him,” Walt suggests.

Martha rolls her eyes, scoffing gently and with amusement. “Sure, because it’s that simple… No. I think I want to leave it be, for now. See if anything changes. Who knows, Deena might come back or he might meet someone else soon, and they might get married and this will all turn out to be some… _passing impulse_ we all had when we were young and stupid. I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Walt says, nodding. “Okay.” She can’t tell if he’s disappointed or relieved.

She can’t tell which she’s feeling, either.

 

* * *

 

The future is always uncertain. Martha and Walt haven’t decided how many kids they want, because of how her mother died. If Walt’s aunt passes away as soon as her deteriorating health suggests, his mother will move to Arizona after the estate’s settled, and that’ll be less money budgeted for extended family care. Martha might be able to afford to go back to school within five years, or she’ll stay at the Chronicle indefinitely, or she’ll be taking leave to raise a child.

They could, someday, maybe, sell the house and buy a little cabin in the middle of nowhere and retire. They could have a dog and some chickens and a couple of horses and a bunch of grandchildren; Martha could fish for their Friday dinners at dawn, and Walt could read to her during lazy afternoons.

If they play their cards right.

Neither of them gamble much, as a rule. Walt’s poker face is fine, but he gets too distracted trying to read the other players to pay attention to his own hand and the cards in play. Martha’s okay, but she stays away from the tables because she tends to raise her bets with a little too much enthusiasm when she has half a chance.

But it’s not gambling if it’s a sure thing, and whatever else happens, Martha knows she’ll be with Walt ‘till her dying day. And Henry will always be standing at Walt’s side.

It doesn’t matter why or _how_ they’ll all be together, the fact remains that they _will_ be.

And that’s enough.

That’s more than enough.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you so much,” Martha says, letting Henry in the front door. “I can manage meals for two just fine, but we’ve got twenty coming, and since you’re the best cook I know…” It doesn’t hurt that he’s been working the kitchen up at Prudhoe Bay for the last six months, either.

Henry chuckles, arms full of supplies. “There is no need for flattery, I am happy to help.” She grabs a bag from where it’s balanced precariously in the crook of his arm, and leads the way past the sitting room and down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Okay, you’re in charge,” she tells him once they’ve unpacked everything. “What do you need me to do?”

“Start boiling eggs,” he suggests. “I’ll prepare the vegetables.”

They work around each other easily, old spatial awareness and rhythms from their shared time at the Busy Bee recalled by muscle memory. They work on deviled eggs, seven layer dip, pasta salad, finger sandwiches, and pre-skewered kebabs, storing some components in the fridge for assembly and final cooking the next morning, so they’ll be fresh for the party at noon.

“Where’s Walt?” Henry asks as they’re peeling hard-boiled eggs. He’s got some trick to it, easily getting the shell off in one or two whole pieces, but no matter how many times she tries, Martha always winds up with stubborn fragments she has to pick off under running water.

“Picking up party decorations and the cake,” she tells him. “He’s convinced that they’re going to give us a half-full helium tank for full price, so he might be a while.” Tracy and Laura will be coming tomorrow morning to help do the actual decorating, but it’s better to have everything ready to go than forget something in a last-minute rush.

Henry laughs. “That sounds about right,” he replies. “...Manny is excited to be a father. He still does not understand why Peg will not marry him, but I think he is glad she is letting him be as involved as he is.”

“They’ll work it out,” Martha says. “I think she’s just skittish now that her parents are getting divorced.”

“I have reminded him that family is not always defined by ceremonies or filling out the appropriate paperwork,” he says, starting to halve the eggs with fluid, efficient motions.

“Family’s who sticks around, no matter what,” she murmurs, remembering what Walt had said, once upon a time. She remembers why he said it. “...I heard about your father passing. I’m sorry for your loss.” It sounds empty, but she means it.

Henry’s hands pause; she doesn’t look at his face. The minute tremble in his fingers says enough. “...there is nothing to be sorry for,” he tells her.

“Not… not this loss,” she tells him. “Not for his death. For the one before it.” For losing his father years ago, and only now being given the opportunity to truly grieve.

“...thank you,” he says finally, and she leans into his shoulder for a moment before going back to peeling eggs.

They work in silence for a little while.

Walt bustles in soon after, exchanging cheerful greetings with Henry as he deposits the first load of bags onto the kitchen table. Then he heads back outside to bring in more from the truck.

Martha rolls her eyes and dries her hands off. “I’ll move all this,” she says. They need the kitchen table for prep space, but the dining room’s still empty.

“Thank you,” Henry replies, then adds, “...oh, do you have any more cayenne pepper?”

“Check the pantry,” she calls over her shoulder, and starts to unpack the bags, sorting the paper plates and napkins and streamers and balloons and brightly-colored tablecloths into neat stacks on the dining room table.

She comes back into the kitchen with the jars of sprinkles and icing tips and pastel cupcake wrappers. “Where do you want—?” she starts, then stops, seeing Henry.

He’s standing in front of the pantry shelves, staring down at a bottle in his hand. It’s a champagne bottle.

It’s _the_ champagne bottle, from Walt and Martha’s wedding night.

Henry looks up. “You never opened it,” he comments lightly.

“It’s really expensive champagne,” she replies.

Henry nods but doesn’t say anything else. She’s not sure how else she’s supposed to respond; she’s not sure what the bottle means to him, here and now. Behind her, she can hear Walt coming in with the rest of the shopping. There’s a rustle as he puts the bags on the dining room table, taking his cue from the stuff already laid out there.

“Hey—” Walt says, coming up behind Martha, whatever he was about to say swallowed when he sees the tableaux in the kitchen. His hands land on Martha’s arms, curling around her elbows. She can feel his solidity at her back, but resists the urge to lean into it.

Henry turns away and sets the bottle aside. “We should finish these eggs,” he says, getting the cayenne pepper.

Martha looks at Walt, baffled. He gives her arms a reassuring squeeze and walks away, down the hall, leaving her on her own.

Nothing for it, then. She gets back to work on the eggs beside Henry.

Their rhythm is thrown; their elbows jostle, they both reach for the same item or turn simultaneously, stepping on each others’ toes. By the time the eggs are done, Martha’s nerves are jangling badly, and she grabs a beer, mumbling something about needing a break. She flees to the dining room, pulling a churchkey from one of the drawers in the hutch so she can open the bottle.

Leaving the churchkey and the bent bottle cap beside the party supplies, she keeps moving, pacing around the table twice before crossing the hall into the sitting room. Walt’s already there, on the sofa, book open in his hands but she’s willing to wager he hasn’t turned a page in the last ten minutes.

He looks up as she enters, lifting his eyebrows in silent query. Martha shakes her head and shrugs, taking a swig of her beer.

“I had wondered what happened to that,” Henry says from the doorway. Martha turns; he’s gesturing to the piano.

“Walt’s been practicing jazz on it,” Martha says, trying to sound long-suffering but it comes out a little strangled.

Henry nods. “I am glad it has found a good home,” he replies, glancing between her and Walt. “Maybe this is where it was always meant to be.”

The sofa cushions creak as Walt leans forward, setting aside his book so he can prop his elbows on his knees, giving Henry a keen, angled look from beneath a cocked brow. “Maybe,” he allows.

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s yours,” Martha says. “If you want it back, just say so.”

Henry smiles at her. “I would prefer to keep it here, if you do not mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Walt says roughly. He looks at her. “Martha?”

It’s that simple, but she swallows hard against the tightness in her throat before answering. “As long as you like,” she says, setting her bottle on a nearby side table.

Henry doesn’t smile like this often, wide and toothy and bright. “Just to be clear…” he starts.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Walt interrupts, standing and crossing the room in three long strides. Henry is still laughing when they kiss.

 

* * *

 

A year and a day after Martha and Walt exchange vows under the clear blue sky, she packs up a picnic basket full of leftovers from last night’s anniversary dinner, plus some odds and ends she has in the pantry and thinks will be nice. She’s folding up a quilt when she hears the rattle of Henry’s newly purchased old truck — which he’s been steadily restoring in his free time over the course of the summer — in the driveway, and heads out.

Henry waves from the driver seat and Walt wrestles with the door a little before it opens with a creak. She smiles brightly, but can't wave back with her arms full. She settles for wiggling her fingers around the bulk of the quilt.

Walt meets her halfway, taking the loaded basket from one hand and their battered old aluminum cooler from the other, giving the latter a curious glance. “Planning on bringing the rest of the fishing gear, too?” He asks her. “I thought this was just going to be a picnic.”

“It is,” she tells him, giving him a quick kiss hello. “That's for the booze, not bait. Though that reminds me, we have to stop by the Sinclair on the way, pick up some ice.”

“Sure thing,” Henry tells her through the open door. She wants to kiss him hello, too, but reminds herself that if she's patient, she can collect later. With interest.

Basket and blanket and cooler go in the truck bed, where she sees Henry still has his camping supplies stowed from their last weekend trip. The sleeping bags will come in handy, add some padding to the rocky ground. Their knees will thank them for it, if she has her way.

The bench seat is a tight fit for three, but nobody's complaining. Martha's more worried about the shocks, though she's comfortably wedged between the two men, and her skin is already humming with anticipation. “Watch the potholes,” she tells Henry. “Or the cooler will get all shook up.”

He gives her an amused glance. “Oh no,” he replies deadpan, “the Rainier will be ruined.”

“Hey now,” Walt complains mildly.

Martha just laughs. They'll find out soon enough that she’s not just worried about the beer. She brought the _champagne_.

They're celebrating today, after all.

 

 

 

 

— end —

 

 _...I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;_  
_I whisper with my lips close to your ear,_  
_I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you._

\-- Walt Whitman, _To You_ , Leaves of Grass, 1900 --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About this 'verse:
> 
> We don't have much to go on from show!canon with regards to Martha, so a lot of this is conjecture spun from the thinnest of threads extrapolated from all the negative spaces she left behind after her passing. I tried to show where Cady got some of her traits (both personality and physical), how Martha might have started her research into the casino (her reporting), and why Barlow might have seen her as a threat (here, her best friend from childhood is Branch's mother, so Barlow knew Martha well enough to know she could expose him). I also had to de-age all of the characters, show them as they might have been, younger and less wise with experience. 
> 
> All the same, I hope this story _felt_ true, even if the show inevitably contradicts me.


End file.
